In the first few years after my mother’s death, I was a bit bossy with my widowed father. When he didn’t seem to be moving on and enjoying life, I decided he needed a pet. Dad had always taken an interest in my family’s menagerie, so I made the decision to get him a kitten.

I bought bowls and food, litter box and litter, scratching post and catnip mouse, and a cat carrier. I purchased a gift certificate for three veterinary visits. All that was left was to select a sweet furry critter at the animal shelter and pick it up Christmas Eve morning.

My kids jumped right on board with this gift for Gramps. Husband Jim, a practical guy concerned with facts, wanted to weigh the pros and cons. “On the one hand, the five of you like this concept,” he said. “On the other hand, no one knows how Gramps will feel about this surprise.”

I assured Jim it would all work out. I knew what he really wanted was a firm guarantee we wouldn’t wind up with another animal. We already had three cats and a snooty Pekingese. Jim had the last word. “Remember all of you, this will be Gramps’ cat. We have enough mouths to feed around here.”

On the snowy day before Christmas, chubby grey and white Pickles (named by the volunteers at the shelter) planted himself on the family room couch. Except for the Peke who took to his bed to sulk, all our critters welcomed little Pickles and he soon joined in the kitty antics of batting tree ornaments and chewing the bows on neatly wrapped packages.

Surveying the cat chaos and laughter of our kids, Jim’s brow scrunched into those deep furrows that indicated considerable concern. “Don’t forget, we’re not getting attached,” he said. “As of tomorrow, Pickles belongs to Gramps.”

A beautiful sunny Christmas day dawned and shortly before noon Dad arrived. With Pickles hidden in the basement and cedar logs crackling in the fireplace, we welcomed my father into our family room and gathered around the tree to present his preliminary gifts.

“What’s all this?’ he asked. “You’d think I had a cat or something.” With this perfect intro, the kids marched into the room with Pickles sporting a big red bow on his grey and white head. “You have a cat now, Gramps,” said Steve.

“Merry Christmas.”

Pickles quickly took to my father and at day’s end the two of them left for home. I was elated that Dad had a new companion and chores to liven up his daily routine. The next morning, I resisted the urge to call and check up on them. But I could imagine the scene – an adorable kitty and dear old man playing and bonding. I decided to wait for our New Year’s Day brunch for an update.

The doorbell interrupted my daydream. It was my father, cat carrier in one hand, shopping bag in the other. I opened the door to a litany of complaints. “He’s swinging on the drapes, scratching the furniture, scratching me, and that litter box! I can’t keep him, I love you all for caring about me, but I really don’t want a pet right now.”

“You have to give him a chance to settle in he’s just a baby, Dad,” I said. “Please try it for a few more days. He’ll be such good company, you’ll see.”

Dad put his two hands on my shoulders and focused his warm blue eyes on mine. His voice was gentle. “I need to find my own way, figure out things for myself, now give your old dad a hug.”

Jim was first down the stairs. The kids followed right behind. I leaned against the front door, kitten in his carrier at my feet, bag of supplies in my arms. Dad waved as he backed out of the driveway.

Jim’s sigh was deep, and long, and resigned. “How about some eggnog for breakfast, Pickles?” he mumbled, picking up the cat carrier on his way to the kitchen.

Good holiday spirits from this old girl.

Carole Marshall is a former columnist and feature writer for a national magazine. She’s had stories published in Chicken Soup for the Soul books and has written two novels and one fitness book. She is Mom, Grandma, Great-Grandma to some spectacular kiddos.